Page 16 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
When I step outside, Seamus is waiting beside the cathedral doors, tall and immovable. The entrance looms behind him, heavy stone carved dark with age, the double doors thrown open and framed with thick arrangements of white roses that spill outward in careful abundance. Their scent hangs in the air, sharp and clean, carried on a breeze that does nothing to cool the tightness in my chest. Guests murmur beyond the threshold, movement and sound filtering out in fragments that make everything feel closer, louder, harder to escape. I take my place next to him, hands steady at my sides, veil hiding everything I cannot afford to show.
My stomach knots as the reality settles in again, not softly, not kindly. I am about to marry the Italian prince, a man whose name carries weight, whose family carries consequences, whosering will close around my finger like a seal rather than a promise. I tell myself this is necessary, that this is protection, that this is the cost of keeping Erin running for the love of her life, happy and free, but fear still slips through the cracks. Fear of the vows, fear of the life waiting on the other side of them, fear of what I am agreeing to without being able to stop myself.
Worse than all of it is the ache of not knowing where Erin is at this exact moment, whether she has already slipped away cleanly or if something has gone wrong. My pulse stays quick, my breath shallow, every second stretching longer than it should.
Seamus leans into me. “Are you nervous?”
I keep my mouth shut and shake my head no.
“Oh,” Seamus hums, turning my body towards him. “Do not lie to me, Rosie.”
My breath stutters despite my best effort to keep it steady, a tight, involuntary catch that gives me away immediately. For a brief, terrifying moment, the fear swells so fast it feels physical, like something pressing against my ribs from the inside. I am certain everything is about to fail, that the doors will open for the wrong reason, that someone will call Erin’s name, that this entire plan will fracture under the weight of its own desperation. My hands curl slightly at my sides, nails biting into my palms as I stare at the roses and try not to unravel.
He steps closer, lowering his voice until it is meant only for me. “I am not just your father,” he continues. “I am the head of the Irish. I know when my daughters are being moved like pieces on a board.” His gaze sharpens, though there is no anger in it, only understanding edged with regret. “I knew something washappening. I only thought you two would come to me before trading husbands like alliances.”
My eyes burn. “She loves him, Papa,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says immediately. “And that is why I am proud of you.” His hand comes up, firm and warm around my arm. “You went this far to protect your sister. You chose loyalty over comfort, sacrifice over safety. I knew I chose the right daughter.”
I blink hard, the words landing deeper than I expect.
“It is lucky for you both that the Italian does not know who Erin is,” he adds quietly. “Not truly. By the time they realize she is gone, she will be somewhere no one can touch her. I have men watching the exits, watching the roads. She will get out.”
The bells begin to chime overhead, deep and resonant, vibrating through the stone beneath our feet. The sound sends a fresh wave of emotion through me, sharp and overwhelming, and I press my lips together to keep it contained.
Seamus leans in once more, his forehead nearly touching mine. “I love you,” he says simply. “And I am with you, every step of the way.”
The cathedral doors begin to open, light spilling out in a widening band as the murmurs inside shift and rise, revealing rows of white florals climbing the aisle, candles flickering against polished stone, and glass overhead catching the afternoon sun. Music swells from the violins tucked into the right corner of the cathedral, rich and reverent, and every head turns as the weight of a hundred watching eyes settles on me. Seamus straightens, composure locking back into place, and turns me gently toward the aisle.
I draw in a deep breath, lift my chin beneath the veil, and step forward. Each pace is measured, practiced, my arm steady in Seamus’s as the architecture rises around us, wood and glass framing the altar like something sacred and inevitable. By the time we reach the end, my pulse is loud enough that I am certain someone else can hear it.
The priest greets us, and Seamus pauses just long enough to lean in and murmur something low into his ear. The priest’s brows lift almost imperceptibly before he nods once. Seamus gives my hand a final squeeze.
“You’re doing beautifully,” he whispers, then steps away and takes his seat.
I am alone at the altar for half a breath before I look up and see Dante up close for the first time, and holy shit. I shouldn’t think that in church, but what else could I say.
The tailored black suit fits him so sinfully well I push my thighs together as I take him in. His dark hair is neatly styled, his jaw sharp enough to make my throat tighten, his expression unreadable but intent, ocean eyes fixed on me like he has already staked a claim on me.
“Hello,” he murmurs under his breath, and his voice rolls over my skin making my knees weak.
“Hi,” I reply, just as quietly trying not to get lost in those eyes, and instead my gaze lands on the two men behind him.
I recognize them from a few days ago. Gabriel was the one who pinned me against the railing, standing with his hands folded neatly in front of him, dark hair in a buzz cut, suit immaculate. His eyes are steady and direct, taking me in without blinking.
Luca, the man I originally mistook for Dante, stands beside him, lighter hair falling in loose waves around his face, his expression calmer, more reserved. His gaze moves slowly, tracking my face, my dress, my hands, as if committing each detail to memory.
Together they are striking, sharply dressed, perfectly still, and it lands all at once that these are the men who will be watching me now, standing close to Dante, impossible to avoid and very much part of what I am marrying into.
I am not just marrying Dante. I am stepping into their world. I am about to belong to him, and by extension, be bound to the men who stand at his side.
The priest’s voice fills the space, steady and ceremonial, guiding us through vows I barely register until Dante reaches for my hand. His fingers close around mine, warm and firm, the contact immediate and grounding.
“I vow to protect you,” he says, his voice low and unwavering. “To honor you. To claim you as my wife in every way that matters, from now until my death.”
When he slides the ring onto my finger, I finally look down. The band is solid gold, weighty and unmistakably expensive, the shoulders splitting slightly before rising into a clustered setting. Pear-cut diamonds sit tightly alongside deep red stones, the contrast bold and intentional. It is the most beautiful ring I have ever seen. Erin would have hated it, insisting rubies clash with her skin tone, but I love them.
When it is my turn, I take the ring from the pillow held by the ring bearer, a small boy standing at Dante’s side. The band is solid gold, set with alternating rubies and diamonds embedded neatly around its circumference. I turn back to Dante and slidethe ring onto his finger, feeling the finality of the gesture settle in my chest.
